


The Heart I Left Behind

by gloomboyz



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Reincarnation, Self-Harm, Suicide, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-24 23:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13821975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloomboyz/pseuds/gloomboyz
Summary: Various scenes of how Gerard and Frank find each other throughout history.





	The Heart I Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my lovely beta reader [robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid/pseuds/corruptedkid). couldn't have done it without you dude!! c:
> 
> also i know i've been promising a sequel to frank iero's midnight society and i promise it's coming soon!! i just haven't found any motivation to work on it recently, not with just finishing this and finishing wolf pack AND having like 17 other fic ideas on top of that. i'll get to it eventually. probably.
> 
> and!!! i made a playlist for this fic!! check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/omniflora/playlist/3HeOQEoMXM1dtU8kmZDOQo?si=bf4k5fDUTBqQuvP6Y3p0Ng)
> 
> anyway enjoy!!

The year was 1693, and Frank Iero had fallen in love.

His name was Gerard. His family - the Way family - owned the apothecary in town. Frank first saw him there, talked to him there, too, when his father had fallen off his horse one day in the fields, and subsequently, Frank’s mother had sent him into town to retrieve medicine. Gerard had been standing behind the counter of the small, dimly-lit shop, and he hadn’t even laughed at Frank’s stutter, like most of the other townsfolk did.

After that, Frank began spending more and more time with Gerard. They’d been nothing more than friends, of course; just confidants in each other about anything a normal townsfolk would. Their families, the Puritan Overseers, and, of course, the Witch Trials that’d been quickly spreading through their small village. But more than their worries, Frank and Gerard were able to grow closer through just speaking with one another and exchanging stories of their life. Gerard was an excellent storyteller, Frank had found; he not only had seemed to have quite the interesting life, he was also amazing at creating his own tales of magic and royalty and havens away from their seemingly dark, dreary lives.

And somewhere along the line, Frank fell in love with him.

He’d struggled with the idea, of course. Men weren’t supposed to fall in love with other men the way they did with women, but Frank somehow did, and after a while, it didn’t bother him in the slightest. Not when he could simply look at Gerard and feel his heart flutter in a way it never had before. And when Frank let it slip that he felt that way, he’d just been lucky that Gerard had responded with a kiss and a whispered promise that he felt exactly the same.

For a majority of their time together, they’d been lucky enough not to get caught. They were careful about it, which probably helped their chances. They made sure that the only kisses they shared were hushed, unseen, and the caresses they shared were subtle, making sure to only interact with each other in public on a strictly friendly basis.

But Gerard got in trouble.

He hid it from Frank the best he could, tried his best, but it was inevitable that Frank would find out when practically the whole town marched itself right up to the apothecary’s doors, on a day where Frank happened to be there as well.

The look Gerard gave him could only be described as remorseful. Not scared, not paranoid, not angry. He looked at Frank sadly and grasped his hands gently in his own, as Frank sputtered at Gerard and kept glancing back out the windows of the apothecary to the mob outside. Their faces were twisted and distorted in the glow of their torches, looking not unlike to demons.

When the cool metal of a chain was pressed into Frank’s hand, he looked back at Gerard with wide, fearful eyes.

“Gerard-” he stumbled over his words, “what- I do-don’t understand-”

Gerard pressed a finger to Frank’s mouth, shushing him. Before Frank could utter more nervous words, Gerard bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to Frank’s fingers, white around the metal necklace Gerard had placed in his hand.

He looked at Frank intently, and took a deep breath. “I will always come back to you, my love,” he said, his voice barely audible over the jeers of the townsfolk outside. Gerard pulled away from Frank, then, and began walking across the shop and out its doors, his head held high. Frank scampered behind him, still rattled and confused.

By the time Frank exited the shop, he was immediately hit with the jeers of the crowd, shouting hateful words at Gerard. Their ferocity stung even Frank, despite not being directed at him. Frank couldn’t tell whether the stinging in his cheeks was from the snowy cold, or from the hateful speech. “Ge-Gerard!” Frank screamed over the sounds of the crowd. But Gerard did not look back once, and just kept calmly walking forward, ignoring the jabs and pushes from the crowd as he was corralled to the town’s square. Frank tried to follow him as best he could, but an arm yanked out of the angry townsfolk, pulling Frank to the side of his mother.

“What were you doing in the apothecary with that _sinner?”_ his mother hissed into his ear, her grip around his arm tightening almost painfully. Frank tried to stutter out a worthy answer, but before he could, the booming voice of the governor filled each and every ear in the courtyard. All of Frank’s attention was immediately drawn back to the center of the town square. He attempted to peek over the heads of people in front of him to see Gerard with little luck. When he did, though, he wished he hadn’t.

Gerard stood tied at the pole like all victims of the witch hunt in their town had, his head still held high and his expression calm, defiant, and selectively blank. Frank felt his heart plummet. He knew what was happening, of course he did. He’d have to be daft not to.

But Gerard wasn’t a witch. Frank would have noticed if he was. Wouldn’t he? Maybe he was being prosecuted because of his and Frank’s relationship. The thought made Frank’s stomach churn. But in that case, then why wasn’t Frank being prosecuted as well?

“Gerard Arthur Way stands here, accused of witchcraft, a crime punishable by death. How do you plead to your sentence?” the governor’s voice shouted over the ruckus of the crowd. Frank held his breath as he awaited the answer.

Gerard hardly hesitated. “Guilty.”

“No…” Frank whispered under his breath, his voice shaking. “No!” he shouted, trying to push through the crowd, just to get to Gerard. Anything to get to Gerard.

But his mother still had a vice-like grip on his arm, and yanked him back. It was then that Frank saw practically the whole crowd staring at him, their faces ranging from disgust to anger.

Frank looked past the faces, though, and stared at Gerard. Despite the space between them, Frank could clearly see a message of ‘don’t’ etched in his features.

“Well, then,” the governor said, his voice interrupting the heavy silence that’d fallen over the town’s square. “That concludes the trial. Begin the execution!”

Immediately, the crowd surged towards Gerard, leaning down and picking up rocks on their way to him. Frank tried to wrestle his way through, but the crowd was stronger. And by the time Frank had reached the post where Gerard once stood, all that was left of his love was a red in the snow and a collection of bloodied rocks.

+++

The year was 1787, and Francis Iero had just figured out that he hated sailing.

Back home in England, he’d never seemed to have much of a problem with the activity. Then again, it wasn’t like he was a regular sailor. So, most likely, he just hadn’t developed his seafaring legs yet.

But he was sure that putting him on two months with no escape was not the way to do it.

He hadn’t wanted to come to America, not really. The only reason he was being shipped overseas to the newly established nation was because he had business to handle. In small parts of the nation that still remained loyalist, his company had blossomed, and he was being sent to the United States by his advisor to work out business deals, and the possibility of establishing a chain of tea shops in the States.

But business prospects were not enough to bring him joy about the journey. The only good thing at all seemed to be that all the other passengers seemed just as miserable as him about the voyage.

Actually, that was a bad thing. A very bad thing.

Francis heaved one last time over the rail of the ship, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. He could barely hear the sound of a baby aboard crying over the roaring waves, but the ear-splitting whines were still there, making Francis’ headache that much worse. He hated seasickness, but he hated the people who thought it was acceptable to bring their children on a two month voyage more.

He stumbled his way down to the belly of the ship, where his bunk and corner of belongings were kept. He had been initially promised that he was going to be given spacious, isolated quarters, but it seemed that everyone wanted to make the voyage to America, and Francis had been crammed in a simple commoner’s ship, to give the space that was supposed to be his to more important, wealthier people.

He lay down in his bunk, trying not to get sick again as the rolling of the waves only seemed to increase under him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, his hand closed around his good luck charm- a silver necklace with a quartz stone tied at the end. Even knowing it was there brought Francis some relief. He pressed a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, and focused on sleeping- something he hadn’t been able to do much of since boarding the ship.

Suddenly, a head popped out from the bunk above Francis’, startling him with a cheerful, “Hello!” Francis’ eyes shot open, coming nearly face to face with a young woman, her hazel eyes bright and pleasant even in the dark cabin space.

“I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” she said as she swung down from her bunk, her frock almost riding up just too much. She sat down in Francis’ bunk and seemingly ignored all societal rules about personal space.

Francis gulped. “Hello, I’m Francis Iero.”

She tilted her head, her loose brown curls falling from one side of her face to the other. “The tea company owner?” Francis nodded in response, giving no other explanation or elaboration. The woman seemed to understand anyway. “I’m Geraldine Way.” She held out her hand, and Francis shook it, albeit hesitantly.

“So,” Geraldine said, shifting around and seemingly trying to get comfortable, “what brings you to America?” she asked, crossing her legs at the ankles.

Francis hesitated, thinking of ways he could finish with this conversation quickly so he could try and get some sleep. “My advisor wants me to work out business deals with American tea companies,” he explained. “What about you?” He prayed she wouldn't give an in-depth answer. His eyelids were already beginning to droop.

“I snuck onto the ship,” Geraldine said with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “But don’t tell anyone I said that.” She winked at Francis and put a finger to her lips. Francis blanched. “I’m a prostitute,” Geraldine continued when she noticed that Francis wasn’t commenting, “and I’m hoping to go to America to establish a music career. I’ve always wanted to be a musician.”

Francis hardly thought she’d be able to achieve her dream, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He may have been frustrated, but he was above being plain rude. “That sounds interesting,” he said instead, nodding politely.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around it, you know,” she said, looking at Francis with a stern gaze. “I know it’s a far reaching goal, but I have my ways,” she hummed, lying back in Francis’ bunk. He didn’t doubt she actually might have had ways of achieving a celebrity position in America. He also didn’t have the heart to kick her out of his bunk, so he nudged her legs just enough so he could comfortably curl up and go to sleep.

He was awoken sometime later, though, with the feeling of a warm, hot grip around his cock. His first thought was that he didn’t remember falling asleep with an erection. His second thought, though, was that of the sight of Geraldine bending down over Francis’ length, jacking in a practiced rhythm.

Francis let out a surprised, yet pleased moan against his better judgement, but was at least smart enough to throw his hand over his mouth. Geraldine looked up at him, then, her smile wide and her eyes bright and eager. Her hair was ruffled and messy as she practically slithered up Francis’ body until she was eye level with him, her hand still moving up and down his erection as she did.

“You were moaning in your sleep,” she whispered seductively. Her cheeks were pink and flushed, and Francis didn’t doubt he that he looked similar. A thought of sense finally popped into Francis’ head, and he attempted to push Geraldine off of him, which mostly worked. She paused, removing her attention from his cock.

“Don’t worry,” she purred. “There’s no one else in here.”

But Francis just shook his head, and shuffled out from under Geraldine, who had a twisted look of confusion painted on her features.

“That’s not the issue, unfortunately,” Francis said, trying to not let ire slip into his tone. He didn’t know how successful the attempt was, but Geraldine didn’t look all that offended, so that was most likely a good sign.

“Then what is?” Despite Francis’ best attempts, Geraldine’s tone was gruff. Francis ran a hand through his hair, which was particularly disgusting and greasy.

“I don’t want this, Geraldine,” he explained simply. “I don’t want a sexual relationship with you.”

Geraldine’s eyebrow quirked. But she said nothing, so Francis continued. “You seem like a lovely woman, don’t misconstrue my words, but that’s just not something I’m interested in.” He shrugged.

Suddenly, it seemed like a switch had been flipped inside of Geraldine. Her face cleared, and turned apologetic. “I just- when you were talking to me earlier- no one’s ever…” she hesitated. “I’m apologize. I misunderstood our relationship, and I overstepped a line.”

“It’s alright.” He shrugged. “I understand completely, I fear.” His hand twitched in his lap, and he turned an idea over in his head, before letting his hand fall to the space between them, palm up. Geraldine blinked up at him, and then to his hand, before letting her hand slip into his. He gave it a gentle squeeze, smiling at her in a way that he hoped was forgiving.

Geraldine looked up at Francis, then, something akin to hope in her features.

The next few weeks aboard the ship didn’t seem nearly as bad in Geraldine’s company, Francis found. She was a pure ball of energy, always chatting and cheerful. She told Francis tales of her childhood, and didn’t even seem bored when Francis told her stories of his less-than-exciting, high society upbringing. In fact, she seemed rather enraptured.

It was a storm-ridden night only a handful of days later, the ship rocking back and forth so intensely that it was making Francis feel sicker than he ever had in his life. The rain pelted down onto them harshly, but Geraldine still stood out on the deck, rubbing at Francis’ back soothingly as he retched over the side of the ship. Salty rain mixed with the taste of bile in Francis’ mouth, and with one final heave, he emptied the few contents of his stomach once more. Geraldine immediately wrapped her arms around him as soon as he was done retching, cooing soft words into his ear.

But the two jumped nearly completely apart when a particularly intense flash of lighting lit up the sky, the boom of thunder echoing across the darkened sky.

“It’s alright,” Geraldine hummed in his ear. “You’re alright.” Francis didn’t feel quite alright, but he had to admit, Geraldine’s words and slender hand rubbing circles on his back did make him feel just a bit better.

And just a moment later, Francis was jumping in fear.

An intense light came over the whole ship, followed by a sickening crack. Several people screamed out, and it wasn’t until Frank blinked his eyes several times and felt the world tilt under him in a way it never had before that he registered what was happening. Supplies on deck began shifting down, and Francis could see two halves of what was once a whole ship tilt away from each other. He stumbled, holding onto Geraldine with all his might.

“Oh, God almighty,” Geraldine said, her voice shaky with panic.

“It’s alright,” Francis repeated her words from earlier, but he hardly figured they were of any use now. The ship shifted so much that gravity pulled the both of them down, causing them to lose their footing. Francis tried to grab something, anything to hold onto, but it was fruitless. Soon enough, him and Geraldine were falling into the icy waters below, still holding onto each other. Though, the longer the two struggled to stay afloat in the rough water, the harder it was to keep a grip on one another. Francis could barely feel his fingertips.

The last thing Francis heard before he slipped into frosted, eternal unconsciousness, was the shaky sound of Geraldine’s voice singing him a tune he recognized from his childhood.

+++

The year was 1852, and Francine Iero was days away from her deathbed. Probably. Her mother always told her she was a bit of a prima donna.

But her mother didn’t make remarks like that anymore. Francine was too sick, her mother claimed. Too fragile to be picked on.

Francine hardly felt fragile, most days. Most days, she actually felt quite normal. The only sign she was sick was when she coughed into the handkerchief she always kept in her pocket nowadays, and it came back splattered with blood. But other than that, there were very few signs that there was anything wrong with Francine. Most women usually appeared weak, pale, and fragile anyway.

On the days where she felt alright, the doctors permitted her to roam in the courtyard, provided she was supervised. They actually were ecstatic when she said she felt well enough to go outside; “Lots of fresh air and exercise,” her doctors had told her.

Today was not one of her stronger days.

She actually felt bedridden, today, and she had already coughed up more blood than she ever remembered doing so in the past. Quite literally, she felt miserable.

A gentle knock echoed at Francine’s doorway, just a bit louder than the sound of coughing and retching coming from the other patients of the sanatorium. Francine tried to choke out an invitation for whoever was knocking to come in, but it just resulted in her hacking up more blood.

A nurse strolled into the room, a silver tray sturdy in her hands. But it wasn’t just any nurse, it was the one that had been visiting Francine for a few weeks now. She must have been new, Francine had figured, when the then-unfamiliar started showing up with Francine’s daily medicine. Francine found her quite beautiful, in a strange way. Her face was gentle and round, almost like the cherub statues Francine remembered from her childhood home.

She missed her childhood home.

“Time for your medicine, Francine,” the nurse said, her voice soft and kind. The sound made Francine’s lips tug up into a gentle smile, the only kind she could manage at the moment. Francine hated her medicine, but when she complied and took her medicine without a fight, the new nurse would always smile at her in this way that would cause Francine to reciprocate, no matter how bitter her medicine was.

The nurse put the tray onto the table by Francine’s bedside, the only contents on the tray being of a glass of water, a fresh handkerchief, and her pills. The nurse handed over the water, and dropped the little white pills into Francine’s awaiting, pale hand. She dropped the pills into her mouth, and gulped them down with the water. It was cool and fresh in her mouth, washing away the metallic, acrid taste of blood.

And when Francine looked up, the nurse was giving her that expected, sweet smile. Her heart began to beat just a little faster.

Francine’s health declined quickly after that. Days were spent in a haze of different experimental pills to lessen her pain - the doctors weren’t even trying to help her at this point; she was beyond saving now, and even she knew it - and tearful hours with her mother. Francine did not cry, she found herself unable to. She knew that her death was imminent, and had known it since the day she began coughing up blood. She had had enough time to prepare for the day when she would finally pass on, rendering her rather emotionless about the situation, all things considered.

At one point, Francine’s mother had brought her a necklace. It hadn’t looked like much, certainly not like the styles women were wearing those days, and nothing that Francine had ever seen her mother wear. It was cold and heavy in Francine’s hand as her mother shakily dropped it into Francine’s palm. Her mother had said it was an heirloom, but Francine didn’t know how truthful that was. And still, she kept it clasped around her neck.

Francine’s head turned from the window she’d been looking out when she heard the sound of shoes click-clacking on the floor, only to see the nurse. Somewhere in the past few days, Francine had come to find that she adored the nurse like she was supposed to have adored the suitor her mother had picked out for her before she got ill. The thought didn’t disturb her. Really, it just gave her a sense of peace.

The nurse looked tearful as she approached Francine’s bed, her eyes red and puffy. She still held the familiar silver tray in her hands, but it was empty. Whatever had been on there was not for Francine, she figured.

“I have something for you, Francine,” the nurse said as she approached Francine’s bed, sitting down on the sheets carefully. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a flower, snipped halfway at the stem. “I know you particularly like the roses in the garden, so I got one for you.”

Francine, with a shaking hand, reached out and grabbed the rose from the nurse’s, their fingers brushing only for a moment. The peach-shaded rose felt almost abnormally heavy in her hands, but maybe that was just her, Francine thought.

“That was very kind of you,” Francine croaked, barely holding in a cough. Her breathing still sounded wet and heavy, though. Francine let her hand drop down onto her chest, the flower following with it. If she listened carefully enough, Francine swore she could hear the nurse let out a quiet sob. And thus, Francine decided to take a risk.

She kept the flower on her chest, but let her hand fall to where the nurse was sitting, holding it out palm-up in a sort of offering. The nurse hesitated, but her hand was warm and soft when it finally ended up in Francine’s.

“What’s your name?” Francine asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The nurse laughed, but the sound was sad.

“I never told you, did I?” she said softly. “My name is Gena.”

Francine nodded. “That’s a lovely name.” She squeezed Gena’s hand as tightly as she could. And as her consciousness faded, she swore she could hear the sound of Gena crying. But by then, Francine was already too far gone.

+++

The year was 1941, and Francesca Iero was crying.

She made sure to do it quietly, of course, as not to wake the other passengers sleeping on the military ship. But she couldn’t sleep, not when thoughts of her family were keeping her up. When the ship finally reached land, she’d be able to send letters back to her family, so she spent the time she couldn’t sleep scribbling out letters to her parents. But Francesca’s hands couldn’t stop shaking, and the ink of the letters were blurring together when they mixed with the tears that kept falling onto them.

Finally, Francesca signed her name quickly and sharply and sealed up the letter in the envelope one of the navy men had given her, kissing the envelope where she stuck the stamp.

Francesca was barely 17, and her family was lucky enough to be applied to a program that would send her to an American family where she would stay with them until the war was over. Living in war-torn, fascist Italy was hell, Francesca had to admit, but she didn’t want particularly want to be separated from her family, either. _It would have happened anyway if you had stayed,_ a small voice in her head told her.

She ignored it, and frustratedly punched her pillow once, twice, before flopping down, the letter tucked safely under her bunk with a few others.

The Way family, they were called. Personally, Francesca thought it was a dumb last name. Her grasp on English wasn’t the strongest, and all English names sounded strange and unusual, but she suspected that ‘Way’ sounded stupid to even natives. And still, she wondered what they were like. Did they have children? Had those children been drafted? Despite not knowing them, she hoped not. She couldn’t imagine how her mother would have handled it if Francesca had been a boy and had been drafted. She wouldn’t wish that on any mother.

Stepping onto real, actual land for the first time in quite a few days was like walking into paradise for Francesca. The American air was different, she noted, different from the air on her small home island.

Francesca moved with the crowd of people emerging from the ship, the sounds of words she could just barely understand too loud for her to really think about much. A man in uniform directed her to a table where another man in uniform sat, and from there, he talked her slowly through the process of immigration and helped her fill out paperwork. Truthfully, it made Francesca feel a bit demeaned, like he thought she was simply a child, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she hitched up her only bag on her shoulder and followed another officer as he directed her to where a member of the Way family would be waiting to pick her up.

Mrs. Way was a bit of a terrifying woman, with her pointed red nails and the peroxide-blonde curls stacked on top of her head. Everything about her physically seemed fake, but she was fairly kind and didn’t mock or baby Francesca for her poor English. Instead, she just asked Francesca how the trip had been and told her about her two sons, neither of which had been drafted, apparently.

They pulled up a little while later to a small home, identical to all the other ones lining the neighborhood. The only thing different about it outwardly was the overgrown garden taking over the front yard. But the interior was dark and quite random, truthfully, a hodgepodge of different pieces of decor that seemingly didn’t fit together at all. The stench of cigarettes clung to the walls, but Francesca didn’t comment on how the smell burned her nose, for the fear of coming off as rude. Francesca fiddled with the necklace around her neck, trying not to stare too much at the strange, strange house.

And when they passed the main hallway and entered the dining room and kitchen, two boys that appeared to be around Francesca’s age sat at the dining room table, both fidgeting nervously. The shorter one stood up first, shooting a lopsided smile in her direction.

“Hi,” he said, stepping forward and tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m Gee. Can I take your bag?”

Francesca nodded and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said when she handed the bag over to him. “I’m Francesca Iero.”

He nodded and laughed, but not in a menacing way. “I know.”

Francesca, one way or another, seemed to slip into a sort of life at the Way household. They accepted her as their own, it seemed, and Mrs. Way seemed happy to have another girl around the house after spending years with only boys, if the near-constant doting Mrs. Way did on Francesca was anything to go by. But Mikey, the other one of the Way brothers, had explained that she was always like that, especially with the girls Mikey and Gee brought home. The thought made Francesca blush, and she didn’t know why. Something about the words “girls Gee’s brought home” left a weird feeling in the pit of her belly.

And on Gee’s 18th birthday, Francesca spent nearly the whole morning helping Mrs. Way prepare a cake for Gee, and was happy to do so. Gee’s birthday was quite the celebration, all things considered. By 7pm that Saturday night, the Way house was packed with mostly Mikey but some of Gee’s friends, and while Francesca was having fun, the large crowd gave her some anxiety. Yet seemingly, Gee wanted to spend the entire night with Francesca, talking with her through the night. It comforted Francesca in a way she couldn’t explain.

But Gee got the letter a week later.

Francesca was coming home from the after school English classes at Mikey and Gee’s highschool that she’d just enrolled in, to an empty house except for Gee at the dining room table, on hand fisted in his brown locks as the other shook, clutching a letter.

“What’s wrong?” Francesca asked, putting her school satchel in the chair next to the one she sat down in, right across from Gee. He didn’t look up at her, and just kept staring at the letter.

“I’ve been drafted,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Francesca’s heart leapt into her throat.

“What?” she asked, her tone sharp. She grabbed the letter from Gee’s hand, and when he didn’t resist, she read over it, then a few times more to make sure that what she was reading was true. But it was, clear as day.

“How am I gonna tell my ma?” Gerard ran his hand through his hair and put his head in his hands, staring down at the table like it would give him some comfort. Francesca didn’t know what to say. True, there probably wasn’t much she could say to comfort him. Francesca already felt terrible, which just meant that Gee felt hundreds of times worse.

So Francesca stood up and walked around the table, letting the letter drop from her hands. She crouched down to Gee’s level and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his shoulder gently and calmly as she whispered words of condolences in his ear. It probably wouldn’t help much, but Francesca hoped it would at least help a little.

Gee left for the service a little over a month later, and a tearful day it was. All of the Ways cried, and even Francesca cried too- she couldn’t help it when tears started brimming her eyes.

Before he departed his family, though, Gee went back to Francesca and leaned down, kissing her gently.

  
“I’ll come back, I promise you,” he said to her, and only her. Francesca just had to hope that it was true. She nodded once, and kissed Gee again. Letting him go was one of the hardest things Francesca was sure she’d ever had to do.

But Gee didn’t keep his promise.

The day a soldier showed up at the Ways front door was one of the most difficult days of Francesca’s life. Luckily, she hadn’t been the one to receive the news straight from the source. No, that’d been left to Mrs. Way. Francesca consoled the woman the best she could, but it was hard to do when she felt like she herself was falling apart. In only a few short months, she’d come to know and even sort of love Gee. But he was never coming back. Killed on the shores of Italy, the soldier had said. Francesca thought fate was a cruel, cruel mistress when she heard those words.

Gee had broken his promise. And Gee wasn’t coming back.

+++

The year was 1982, and Frankie Iero was having what was quite possibly the hardest year of his life.

Well. Okay. His life in general was just shit. honestly, and it started the day he was born. Like, seriously, who the fuck would name their kid _Franklin?_ Frankie’s parents, apparently. But from the time he was little, he’d hated his name, and still did. Frankie wasn’t much better, but it was at least better than Franklin. Fuckin’ Franklin.

The second - or maybe it was first, honestly - most difficult part about Frankie’s life happened in fourth grade, when kid from the grade above his who Frankie could no longer remember the name of brought in his guitar and played songs for Frankie’s class, as per Frankie’s fourth grade teacher’s request. It was then that Frankie realized that the sight of the unnamed guitar player sparked some sort of feeling in the pit of little Frankie’s stomach, one that had yet to go away.

Of course, eight-year-old Frankie’s crush was nothing more than an admiration-based one, but it’d paved the way to a future of other crushes on many other boys, something that really fucking wasn’t in Frankie’s favor.

But, on the flip side, his first crush also had spawned Frankie’s love for guitar, so that was something.

It was really just Frankie’s luck that he’d come out to his parents just a week before the AIDS crisis began spreading across America.

His parents had been as nice about it as they could, thankfully, but Frankie could see their obvious discomfort around him after that. And don’t even get him _started_ on the subtle ways they began trying to ‘fix’ him; pamphlets about AIDS from the doctor’s office, clippings from the newspapers about articles on gay men living with AIDS, and copies of lines from the Bible that his mom began slipping into his school books and laundry baskets. Frankie knew they were just worried for his safety, concerned as to where ‘being a homosexual’ would lead him, but Frankie couldn’t help it. He’d come to accept long ago that there probably wasn’t much in the world that would be able to change him.

And Frankie’s parents seemed to realise that too. So, every Wednesday night, they shipped him off to the Youth Group at their local church, hoping it would finally ‘cure’ him, or some other bullshit.

In short, Frankie hated Youth Group. He already hated going to church, so adding Youth Group on top of that was really just salting the wound in Frankie’s mind. He hated the things they taught in Youth Group, he hated the other people in the Youth Group - half of them actually enjoyed going. The thought made Frankie shiver - and he especially hated the leader of the Youth Group Mr. Wentz, and his two annoying as fuck kids that he insisted be brought to every Youth Group meeting.

Frankie trudged along as he made the short distance from his house to Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, wanting to drag out every moment that he possibly could to avoid going to Youth Group. He could always just skip it, of course, but Youth Group was a lot like school in the way that Mr. Wentz called the parents of each and every person who was missing from a meeting on any given night. Plus, Frankie had just gotten over being grounded for skipping school the month prior, so he really wasn’t trying to push it.

The doors of Our Lady of Sorrows were heavy, lined with stained glass and engraved metal, and Frankie glared at them as he tugged one of them open. The familiar scent of incense hit him within a minute, and he glared at the air, too. He stumbled his way down the stairs that led into the church’s basement, and walked extra loudly down the dimly-lit hallways of the basement, purely out of spite, until the dreaded door of the Youth Group room was in front of him, looming over Frankie menacingly.

He pushed open the wooden door - which took much less effort than the main doors, thank god - and looked around, seeing mostly familiar faces of the other kids who’d been shoved into the Youth Group by their parents for whatever reason.

And then, there was the unfamiliar face of an unfamiliar guy smiling at Frankie in greeting and asking him his name, glancing from Frankie to the clipboard in his hand and back at Frankie again.

“Name?” he asked, twirling the pencil in his finger. He was greying, and round, and kind of old, like Mr. Wentz, but he also had a certain youthfulness to him that did weird things to Frankie’s head. The necklace around Frankie’s neck shifted suddenly, from where it must have gotten stuck on his collar bone, and Frankie jolted back into consciousness.

“Um-” he stuttered, remembering that he actually had to speak. “Franklin Iero?” His real name always felt sour on his tongue. The man nodded, marking something off on his clipboard.

“Do you have a nickname or something else you like to be called?”

Frankie blinked at the man, disbelieving. Mr. Wentz had never asked Frankie if he wanted to be called anything other than Franklin. Frankie didn’t know who this guy was, but he didn’t see Mr. Wentz in the room at all, which was probably a very good sign.

“I like to go by Frankie?” he said tentatively. The man just nodded and wrote it down on his clipboard. After scribbling out the note, he smiled at Frankie and tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear.

“I’m Father Way, the new Youth Group director.” His smile was lopsided, and Frankie felt his heart stutter, just a little.

Frankie didn’t ask where Mr. Wentz was or why this Father Way guy was taking over his role as Youth Group director. He just nodded at Father Way, went to go sit in his usual seat in the circle of chairs, and instantly regretted developing a crush on a fucking priest.

Despite hating the world just a little bit more after developing a tiny crush on Father Way, Frankie no longer dreaded going to Youth Group every Wednesday, as long as it meant he got to see Father Way.

But things were far from perfect. They weren’t even better.

Frankie tried to find someone to go out with, just someone to get his mind off of Father Way - because that crush was totally not appropriate and very off the walls, and Frankie recognized that - but he hadn’t been secretive enough about it. He’d come home too late after a date that was really nothing more than a hookup, honestly, and his mom had become suspicious. Suspicions led to her interrogating Frankie, and eventually, she’d figured out that he was still actively, well, homosexual. And eventually, that led to groundings. Groundings where Frankie wasn’t even allowed to go to Youth Group.

After that, Frankie’s parents didn’t treat him the same. It was like it was all more real for them, like the words “I’m gay!” out of his mouth weren’t enough for them, they actually had to see it in action for them to believe that their son could fall into something so horrible. They began hovering constantly, monitoring Frankie’s every little movement that they possibly could. It was suffocating, to say the least.

The one place they couldn’t follow him was into the bathroom. The bathroom quickly became Frankie’s safe place, and he often found himself going in there whenever he needed an escape from their helicopter nature.

And one way Frankie found release was at the end of a razor blade.

The first time Frankie cut himself, he felt like he could breathe for the first time in so, so long. The wounds splitting open felt like tearing a too-tight shirt from himself, and the warm gush of blood down his thighs felt like taking a shower. Frankie was in ecstasy when he made little cuts into his skin. It, truthfully, was the only control he had over his life. If he couldn’t control being gay, couldn’t control how his parents reacted to him being gay, then he could at least control that.

When Father Way asked him if he was okay one day after a Youth Group, it’d almost made Frankie stop. But not quite.

Instead, he decided to begin pushing it further. He cut deeper, ate and slept less, and when he could, he would walk everywhere and make his way to the bridge that led out of their town, looking down over the railing and pictured what it’d be like. What’d be like to just step over and let go.

His parents didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong, despite all their hovering. And if they noticed, then they didn’t say anything. That, ultimately, was what drove Frankie to finally climb over the railing.

He was so sure of himself as he did it. There wasn’t an ounce of regret in his chest as he clutched the metal railing under his fingers just slightly less. He really didn’t have anything to live for, anyway, so it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like anything was going to change, so why should he feel regret?

“Hey Frankie?” a voice said behind him, causing Frankie to jump almost too much. Frankie whipped his head around, coming to meet the sad, yet still smiling face of Father Way, his hands tucked into his pockets. Frankie then noticed that his face was hot and stinging as tear tracks mingled with the cool air.

“What’s wrong?” Father Way stepped one foot closer, but not anymore. Frankie clutched the railing tighter, and laughed sadly, shaking his head. What wasn’t wrong, really? He knew it sounded cliche, but it was the truth.

“Everything. Anything,” he said simply. Father Way inched just a bit closer.

“Do you want to talk?”

Frankie didn’t. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to jump. He let his grip loosen a little.

“I want to talk, Frankie. Can we please talk?” There was almost a pleading tone to Father Way’s voice. It made Frankie feel terrible. It made him feel regret. He scrunched up his face, trying to hold in a sob as he shimmied around, letting Father Way grab him and pull him over the railing. Frankie expected him to just let him fall to the ground, to yell at him for being an idiot, to ask him what he was thinking.

But Father Way didn’t. Instead, he just held onto Frankie, hugging him just a little tighter as Frankie sobbed into his shoulder.

And when Frankie got home, after what had to have been hours of just him and Father Way sitting on the cold sidewalk and hugging, he told his parents he’d been at the church, helping out.

After that, Father Way stopped coming to Youth Group. Mr. Wentz was back, and so were his two annoying as fuck kids. At first, Frankie chalked it up to Father Way just being sick, or something. But by the end of the first week of Father Way being gone, Frankie realized that he wouldn’t be coming back.

And by the end of the next week, Frankie met his end at the bottom of a bottle of his mother’s sleeping pills, his thing on his mind being being regret.

+++

The year was 2018, and Frank Iero was falling in love.

Love was kind of an exaggeration, of course, but he didn’t know any other way to describe how he felt about the guy who frequented the same cafe that Frank did, sitting in his little corner and always sketching or writing and drinking lots and lots of coffee.

Frank knew it was creepy, to basically stalk this guy every time he happened to be there at the same time as him - which was often; Frank wasn’t even entirely sure the guy ever left - but he couldn’t help himself. This guy had the cutest nose, and hair that curled just at his chin. He was the cutest motherfucker Frank had ever seen. It was basically love at first sight.

One day, though, the guy caught Frank staring. It was almost like he couldn’t believe it, at first, what with the double take he did. But by the time he looked back at Frank, Frank had looked away, his cheeks blazing.

It wasn’t until he heard the sound of a chair scraping across the otherwise silent coffee shop that Frank knew he was fucked. The guy was suddenly sitting down in the chair across from Frank, blinking at him. Frank gulped.

“Um,” he said, not knowing how else to respond. “Hi?”

The guy just blinked at him again, tilting his head in a way that was actually really fucking adorable. “Were you staring at me?” he finally asked. How the fuck was Frank supposed to even _answer_ that?

“Yes?” Frank said it like it was a question. He was like a fish out of water, here, honestly. The guy blinked at him once more.

“Why?” he asked.

Well, Frank figured, it was now or fucking never. “I kind of think you’re really cute?” It was the stupidest way he could have worded it, Frank realized after the words were already out of his mouth. But it wasn’t like he could just take the words back now, so he lived with the consequences.

Consequences like the prettiest blush Frank had ever seen spreading across the guy’s cheeks. Maybe what Frank had said wasn’t that bad after all.

The guy ducked his head, letting his hair fall over his face. “That’s a new one,” he said, but his tone was bitter, and, dare Frank say it, full of self-loathing. Frank so wasn’t standing for that.

“Well, you’re hearing it now. Can I buy you a coffee?” Frank asked, throwing all caution to the win. He made it this far, he figured, why stop there?

The guy looked up at Frank then, vaguely surprised. He nodded quickly, though, smiling. His mouth was lopsided. Frank’s heart stuttered. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Frank began to stand up, only to have his arm be tugged down, shocking him. He looked to the man, a questioning look on Frank’s face. “What’s up?”

“Oh, um,” the man said, suddenly sheepish. “I- What’s your name?”

And once again, Frank felt like the biggest idiot in the world. “I’m Frank.”

The guy didn’t seem to notice Frank’s complete stupidity, though. He just let Frank’s hand drop and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “‘M Gerard,” he mumbled, smiling shyly at Frank.

After Frank had gone to get their coffees and had sat back down, the two fell into an easy conversation. It wasn’t what Frank was imagining his first date with Gerard would be like, honestly. Knowing himself, Frank figured it was going to be awkward, and stilted. But it wasn’t. Frank sipped his coffee too fast accidentally, burning his tongue, but he barely even noticed it.

Gerard gestured to Frank. “I like your necklace,” he said, sipping from his coffee much more calmly than Frank had. Frank looked down at the silver chain around his neck, hooking a thumb under it. He held the stone at the end of the chain in his hand, turning it over and seeing it glint in the sunlight.

“Thanks. My mom gave it to me. She said it’s been in my family for generations, but it doesn’t exactly look like it, so,” he laughed, letting the chain drop.

Gerard smiled and hummed. There was a sudden glint of something in Gerard’s eye, something a lot like familiarity, or maybe recognition. But as soon as it was there, it was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> did you know i met gerard way once he was a big ol sweetheart.
> 
> anyway leave a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed or maybe if you didn’t tell me why in the comments so i can improve.
> 
> until next time- au revoir!!


End file.
